


The Fern Flower

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fantasy, Folklore, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Magic, Sherlock AU, fairy tale, sherlock makes a mistake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumour had it that once a year, during St. John's Night, the shortest night of the year, a fern flower bloomed in the deepest part of the forest. All the wishes of the person who found it would come true. Sherlock didn't believe the story one bit, but in every legend there was a grain of truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fern Flower

**Author's Note:**

> This is Sherlockian rendition of Polish fairy tale The Fern Flower (Kwiat paproci by Józef Ignacy Kraszewski).
> 
> Big thanks to [ thatsaralacey](http://thatsaralacey.tumblr.com/) and to [ veuxpasyaller](http://veuxpasyaller.tumblr.com//) who helped me improve the text.

Once upon a time in a small, remote village, there lived a young man called Sherlock Holmes. He was different than the other peasants, who were simple folk with simple needs. Instead of working in the fields and later meeting friends over a drink in the tavern, he spent his entire time reading about different lands and learning everything there was to learn. His thirst for knowledge could never be satiated, and soon he knew by heart every book and every manuscript that fell into his craving hands.

Sherlock's oddities would have made him very lonely if it weren't for John, his soulmate, with whom he shared a hut on the outskirts of the village. Despite their differences – John was as short, fair-haired and amiable as Sherlock was tall, dark-haired and lofty – the men were inseparable and seemed to love and respect each other deeply. They were poor, often starving when the money was scarce, but very happy together nonetheless. 

One day, when Sherlock had already read everything of value that their village had to offer, all the herbals and manuals included, he decided to browse through the book containing legends the bards liked to tell by the fire. He didn't believe in any of the fables, obviously; he had a rational mind after all. However, one of the tales caught his attention – The Fern Flower. Rumour had it that once a year, during St. John's Night, the shortest night of the year, a fern flower bloomed in the deepest part of the forest. All the wishes of the person who found it would come true. 

Sherlock was intrigued. He didn't believe the story one bit, but in every legend there was a grain of truth. And if anyone could find the flower, it was Sherlock. It was his personal challenge, his own private quest. He talked of nothing else for months and when St. John's Night finally came and others were celebrating and having fun, jumping over bonfires or weaving flower crowns, he sneaked out into the woods.

He had been there numerous times, searching for new interesting specimens or conducting experiments in the clearing; he had unravelled every mystery the woods had to offer. But tonight, on the night of St. John, everything seemed different. The familiar paths were uninviting and wound in strange directions, the owls hooted ominously, and the crooked shadows could easily induce terror in the faint of heart. Not Sherlock, though. He was determined to either find the flower or disprove its very existence forever. 

All the tricks the woods used against him didn't make him falter or lose his way. Sherlock knew precisely where the ferns grew in the forest, and it was easy enough to deduce the right direction by looking at the stars. Finally, barely an hour before dawn, Sherlock entered the heart of the forest. Under the branches of the old oak tree, he saw the cluster of ferns; among them shone a very dimmed glimmer of light. Sherlock reached carefully for the tiny spark, and when his hands closed around it, the brightness exploded, blinding him. He didn't let go, though, and tugged at the spark until it gave way. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that he was holding the most beautiful and rare flower in the whole wide world. The fern flower. He clenched it tightly to his chest, feeling the thrill of the find. John would be so proud of him! But in that moment, the flower spoke, breaking his chain of thoughts:

“You have found me, now I will grant your every wish. But beware! If you share your happiness with anyone, you will lose me forever!”

“Will you give me new books to study?” Sherlock asked hopefully, his eyes glistening greedily.

“I will give you anything you want, all the books in the world if that is what you desire. But you can't share your happiness with anyone or you will lose me forever!”

“Why would I want to share when I'm offered what I crave most?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. In that very instant, the flower's roots reached into Sherlock's heart, nesting there. The man was very pleased, for he would not lose the flower now and nobody could steal it from him. 

Sherlock asked for books and so he received. He asked for a big and luxurious palace to store them in and so he received. He asked for servants to cater to his every whim and so he received. 

The whole year, filled with studying things that most people didn't even know existed, passed swiftly. But Sherlock wasn't happy. Every day he was plagued with thought of John, missing him dearly. Finally, Sherlock mustered up his courage, took his carriage, and ordered his liveried coachman to take him to the village where he used to live.

When the carriage arrived in the yard, John hesitantly walked out of his hut. The man looked tired, dispirited and much older than Sherlock remembered. His sandy hair had turned grey and his face was frozen in an expression of worry. He didn't seem to recognise his guest. Sherlock's heart clenched painfully.

“John, it's me! Sherlock, your Sherlock!” He said in agitation.

John scowled in disbelief and burst out laughing bitterly.

“No, sir, my Sherlock is dead. My Sherlock loved me; he would have never left me all alone.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes to the ground, ashamed. He wanted to hug John and take him to his beautiful palace, but he remembered the warning the flower had given him: if he ever tried to share his happiness, he would lose everything forever. Sherlock thought about all his books, about all the knowledge he desired. He turned on his heel, went back to the carriage, and returned to his studies. 

Another year passed, but Sherlock still wasn't happy. He missed John more and more; the books were unable to fill the void in his soul. One day, he decided he couldn't take it any longer. He would bring John to his home no matter what. John was the most important thing to him, far more important than any book.

Sherlock took his carriage and went once again to the village. He quickly ran to the door of his former home and knocked hard a few times. There was no answer. Sherlock tried again and again but to no avail. 

A beggar coming down the road noticed Sherlock's desperate attempts, and he called to him.

“It's no use, sir, no one lives in that house anymore!” 

“What? How is that possible?” He exclaimed with surprise. “Where is John Watson, the man who lived here?”

“I'm sorry, sir. He died from hunger and despair three months ago.”

Sherlock cried out in terror. His eyes filled with tears as he realised what he had done.

“It's all my fault! Oh John, oh my poor John, how could I have abandoned you?” He sobbed, slumping to the ground. “I wish I was dead!”

And the fern flower granted his last request. The earth opened and swallowed the unfortunate man, who learnt his mistakes too late, along with the fern flower, which can no longer be found, no matter how long one would try looking for it.


End file.
